Ten Thousand Years
by awilla the hun
Summary: Concerning two Inquisitors, a mysterious past, and the fate of the imperial truth.
1. Prologue

**Ten Thousand Years**

'Ten thousand years!' screams the tannoy on the bombed out old grocer's.

'Ten thousand years!' howl the juves as they roar by on their rigs, spiked up and thrusting into the night, horns blaring like a choir of diseased angels.

'Ten thousand years!' reads the banner on the old recaf house. It is the last in the City. Its design reflects the old, elegant lines of the Carpaccian era, some two millennia ago. A simpler age, without the baroque of the Autocracies that followed, or the destructive purges of the preceding Republics that took the head from its exquisite bust of St Aquilinas.

A better age.

Today's clientele consisted of the usual customers. A group of artists, sketching on their frantically hoarded paper. A violinist and her friends, snatching glances about the place. Two peddlars, whose pipe smoke filled the place with an aroma that entirely drowned out the wretched, ration book recaf.

And, in a little alcove of their own, two gentlemen who were agents of the Inquisition.

Both were quite old, and both had the yellow pallor that suggested little in the way of a natural sun. They had between them a regicide board, on which they now focussed.

'Chaplain forward two spaces,' said one, flicking the disc forward with one finger.

The other raised an eyebrow.

'Aggressive.'

'That is how I work, my dear fellow. And it falls to you to counter.'

They both lean back.

'Ten thousand years,' said the second. 'Which brings us neatly to the work of my Order.'

'And also,' the first replied softly, 'to mine.'

A silence. They stir their recaf.

'I thought it might,' said the second.

And then:

'What now?'

'They celebrate the liberation of their world,' said the first, 'by the Emperor's forces on the Great Crusade. The anniversary is coming in seven days time.'

'Praise be.' Both make the sign of the Aquila.

'But very few,' the first continues, 'or, at least, very few amongst the well informed, would state that it was taken by the Emperor himself. We have multiple picts, vox transmissions and two sermons that place him far closer to what is now the Cadian Gate. I'm sending them to your data-slate, if you're interested.'

'Enormously. It is a central duty of my Order that we be interested.' The second one considers this. 'So it would have been one of the Primarch's Legions. My reading of, I believe, Hector's Travels suggests that this was one of the Five Redoubts of the Cincassians. A grave obstacle indeed to our divine forces.'

The first one snorted. 'Divine forces? but of course-forgive me. They were led by a Primarch. Standard scholarly readings here suggest it to be Sanguinius and the Blood Angels.'

'Very true, I have had a hand in the festivities. There's a splendid exhibition to be held in the St Victor's Hall, if you're interested. I am curator-well, my Interrogator. Promising chap, recovered some marvellous bronzes from the period. Superb.'

'No bronze is still extant from that time. It is a scientific improbability.'

'Does it matter? It's what is commonly believed.' The second one opens his lho-stick case, offers one to the first man; he accepts.

'So, to the crux of the matter,' he said. 'That is, in fact, that Sanguinius did not liberate this world. He liberated its twin.'

'I see.' The second one yawns. 'Some Praetor instead, I imagine. Well, you know the provinces. They do love to grab attention.'

'Not a Praetor, no.'

'Then who did?'

'Horus.'

So it begins. The Ordo Redactus and the Ordo Originatus are the two most under-used ordos of the Inquisition, so my inner history student feels behoved to give them some limelight.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Being the personal account of Interrogator Praise-be Blakely, personal aide to Inquisitor Marcus _, Ordo Redactus.

'The worst thing, sir,' I said, 'is that the other fellow's right.'

The Principal paces up and down my little office, or tries to; it's too full of slates, scrolls, books and, as the piece de resistance, the giant post-it covered calendar that organised by exhibition to go more than a couple of steps each way. Eventually, he throws himself down on the floor. 'Right?' he asks. 'Right?'

'Well, he gave you a copy of his notes, and so naturally-' a slight tinge of irony-'you passed it on to me. It fits exactly with certain new discoveries. Archaeological digs. Iterators' sermons from the nearby sectors. Even recent findings on The Front-I refer to the action undertaken by the 49th Kasrkin Regiment in the Malhause sector, storming the old acropolis.'

'How… ambiguous is this theory? How entrenched?'

'The records track both Horus and Sanguinius to this system in M30.721. What the other fellow has discovered-'

'Discovered? How?'

'Permit me to finish, sir.' I am the Ecclesiarchy-trained hagiographer. The Principal, for all his ability, is not. He was, by training, a Barrister of the Law. 'He has discovered records suggesting that the Blood Angels, shortly before the date of arrival, departed from the system to deal with the Qathqart Affair, leaving the Luna Wolves here. Two weeks later, to judge from records of supply movements and casualtiy replacements, as well as a vox-transcript of an Iterator's battle-hymns, the assault is launched.'

'What then?'

'The record of munitions expenditure-referred to as the 'Sarros Collection', from when it was found-suggests a period of intense and heavy combat. Two letters are also recovered, from a Company Commander to Cthonia, reporting the demise of two of that world's sons. Images of a victory parade in the Capital. Certain other articles of evidence.'

'I see. But there is an angle. There is, always, an angle. Where did he find his evidence?'

'May I ask first, sir, why he gave his evidence to you?'

The Principal sighs, runs a hand through his thinning hair.

'Because, when there are two mutually contradictory Inquisitorial Orders in operation, it pays for both of them to limit bloodshed and-well-act like gentlemen. Or, at least, adults. Truth is what is best for the majority, and often highly negotiable.'

He pauses, thinking.

'Besides, I'm generally loathe to waste the work of other good, industrious men unless I need to. And nothing gives one a bad reputation like a bookburning. Makes the public, local authorities and so on terribly upset.' He gazes into the room's one, tiny window, almost hidden behind my Encyclopediae Imperatoria. Dust motes dance in the twilight. 'So, come to think of it, does a world burning. It is my role to preserve order, not destroy it.'

The Principal, as often I joked, was a man of principle. But he looks, collapsed against the wall of my office amongst my straggling masses of aging, disordered notes, a beaten man.

'Nevertheless,' I said, 'we would not be dealing with this case if it was not of some significance.'

'Indeed. What is at stake? We have been fighting on this world for two decades, Interrogator. Ourselves, the other fellow's folk, and an entire imperial army group, to quell the Risings. It is an Astartes recruitment world, held by a successor chapter of the founders. Its Ecclesiarchs claim to trace their origins to the first of the Iteratii-a strange thing to be proud of, but true. And the Government claims legitimacy by dint of its descent from the serfs of the Legion which liberated this world.'

I nod. 'And the findings at Malhause. The Martian Priesthood also has a stake.'

'Exactly. My latest statistics from the Arbites report a 2500% rise in summary executions over the past five years. Penal worlds are filled to capacity, and the Governor isn't going to send any more of them into the Wastes, not after the Risings. The Millernial festivities were supposed to keep this in check. If this world was shown to have been founded by a monster, this could result in the collapse of the government.'

The Principal is now standing, his gaze directed at my little window.

I follow his gaze. Outside, a swarm of arbitrators are escorting people to a gibbet. The statue of Imperial Justice, with its scales and sword, has had its left arm and face shot away.

There were trees in this avenue once.

But, last night, the juves had came again, and burnt the last of them. For firewood, one had said. For fun, said another. To act as a beacon for the Emperor at the end of times, said a third, for surely it is coming soon.

I had shot that one first.

'As a matter of fact, the rise was 3000%.' I said, 'But we can only expect the fullest of cooperation from the local authorities. They'll be willing, and able, to help us. To help the Imperial cause.'

'Will they?' asks the Principal. Still he stares at the gibbet. 'Will they, Praise-be?'

The cage is opened. The first, writhing and screaming, is hauled up.

I turn back to my notes. 'Of course, sir. They are entirely of your attitude.'

'Of course they are.' The Principal sighs. 'I'll contact Visby, the Scout-Master General, our friends in orbit.'

'Can I assist, sir?'

'No, Praise-be, you have a job to do.' The Principal jabs his meaty finger into my chest. 'Make this exhibition, with its bronzes, the best damned exhibition this world has ever seen. War-time or not.' He fishes into his pocket, tosses a data-chip onto the table. 'That's access to my discretionary funds.' I gasp. 'Use them. We want to remind this world of the Emperor's glory, and of their loyal heritage, and of the might of Mankind. Make it happen, Praise-be. Make it happen.'

I rise, make the sign of the Aquila, and he storms from the office, boots thundering down the corridor.

I reach for my vox, and wonder what the other fellow's doing.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

A Fortress-Monastery of the Adeptus Astartes is a solitary place.

It is designed on formalistic Imperial architecture, on principles of gigantism-of massive structures to impose and inspire-and it is designed for people who, in full armour, are often twice the height and many times the girth of a malnourished imperial citizen. Every corridor is vast, empty, echoing. The walls, save for the reliquaries where the banners are kept, are bare. It is almost universally held that there exists no greater honour for a serf than to serve the angels of death; so sustaining their basic needs of life and health ought to be sufficient. There is no joy here. There are no trees, no works of art. The only songs are battle hymns, and even they are made for people whose voices are at least an octave deeper than that of a normal human, and whose ears are more refined.

When fully garrisoned, it is a prison.

When undermanned, as was the Monastery of the Radiant Wayfarers, it is a crypt.

The Radiant Wayfarers' Monastery is situated on the planet's moon, in orbit. It echoes to the tolling of bells, and the industrial clamour of marching sentries in power armour. But that is all.

 **Vox-transcript of a meeting between Inquisitor Ollanius Saint-Armand, Ordo Originatus; his aides, who remain unnamed; Brother-Sergeant Jonas Krik, Radiant Wayfarers, 9** **th** **Company, 10** **th** **Squad; Seneschal Alberta Poros, a Serf, Chief Archivist.**

Saint-Armand: I thank you for your warm and generous reception, My Lord, Seneschal. (his voice has a slight stutter, is high, clear.)

Poros: You are too kind, Inquisitor. We are but humble servants of the Emperor, and do but our duty to a guest.

Saint-Armand: But of course. Praise be to the Emperor.

Poros: For he is our shield and protector.

*clang as Krik makes his Aquila*

Poros: Now, what can we do for you?

Saint-Armand: But of course. Military promptness. I like promptness. Very- I mean, that is to say, I have came upon some valuable historical finds which, considering the coming millennial celebrations on the world below, I feel might be of interest to your Chapter.

Poros: Indeed? You must realise that our Chapter traditionally holds itself aloof from affairs of the world below.

Saint-Armand: A, ah, worthy attitude to take, separation of powers and all that. But hear me out, please. I have my findings on a slate, that I can upload to you immediately if you wish.

Poros: Do so, please. But a summary?

Saint-Armand: Very well. It is that this world, your homeworld, was liberated not by Sanguinius, but by Warmaster Horus.

*a pause, lasting approximately thirty two seconds*

Krik: You are a bold man, Inquisitor, to confront a Chapter of Astartes, in their own monastery, and tell them that they are descended from the Archenemy.

Saint-Armand: One tries, My Lord.

Poros: And, whilst you have a mandate to make us support you, I rather think that, if we were to permit you to leave here alive, then other individuals with similar mandates would rapidly make themselves known to us. But you must know this.

Saint-Armand: I confess that that particular eventuality has occurred to me on several occasions.

Poros: Which raises the question of why you come to us.

Saint-Armand: I came here due to certain weaknesses in source material, which I am sure that your archives could help me with.

Poros: Why would we support this blasphemy?

Krik: I could crush your skull with three fingers, mortal. That is how I could help you.

Saint-Armand: You see, I have been struggling to obtain sources concerning the period after the…

Krik: With three fingers.

Saint-Armand: …liberation. Of the policies of the Luna Wolves' government of occupation, and the manner in which the Radiant Wayfarers assumed control. I was wondering if, perhaps, you could offer assistance.

*another pause, lasting eight seconds*

Saint-Armand: I had tried with the planetary government's archives-the Eugenow, the Tirpitz, and so on-but they are in a state of disrepair, and their archivists most unhelpful. They were most disdainful towards your own archives, also which, considering the relations between the Planetary Government, and the Chapter, is perhaps unsurprising.

Krik: Are you implying, Inquisitor, that the relations between the Wayfarers and the Astartes is anything other than exemplary?

Saint-Armand: Pardon me, but I have served on the world below for the past two decades. During that time a vigorous correspondence came to my attention, between the Monastery and the Government, concerning the matter of tithes.

Poros: Interesting. And what did this purported correspondence have to say for itself?

Saint-Armand: That the Chapter, due to the demands of mass conscription against the Rising, was being starved of recruits for its out of system campaigns; and that, in return, it refused to support the PDF against the Rising.

*a servitor enters, identified as No. 8928U bearing recaff*

Saint-Armand: Ah, thank you. So, if we may return to my questioning, what might I be permitted to recover from your archives?

Poros: You see, Inquisitor, as ancient as we are, and as dedicated our archivists, we can only do so much with records ten millennia old. There are certain limitations as to what we can accomplish beyond, let us say, three millennia. However, I have my theories on this matter.

Saint-Armand: And what might those be?

Poros: That the antecedents of our chapter, finding the previous government to be corrupt and autocratic, saw fit to purge its worst elements; and that, as a gesture of thanksgiving, the world bestowed upon them warriors for a Chapter. Saint Gaspard covers it in his _Conversations, Vol. 4_ , and the Historica Empyrea has some insightful points.

It would be, shall we say, far from contradictory with your own findings.

Saint-Armand: That is very interesting, Poros.

Krik: So we are, in fact, not directly descended from the Abomination?

Saint-Armand: If Poros is correct, it seems unlikely. Quite the reverse, if anything.

Krik: And the present government is?

Saint-Armand: Quite possibly. Not the worst sides, of course, as they would have been purged, but something remains-if Poros is correct, that is.

Krik: Thank you, Inquisitor.

Saint-Armand: Thank you, My Lord. Now, the ceremonies are approaching, so I must have the relevant files quickly if my research is to be released for the maximum impact.

Poros: Indeed.

Saint-Armand: May I ask, also-due to my lack of staff present-that your chapter endorses my findings, possibly down to offering assistance with security and funding? My resources are not limitless.

Poros: Neither are ours', Inquisitor, but-providing my theories are correct-we can offer what we can.

Saint-Armand: Splendid.

Poros: Another question, Inquisitor, if I may-where exactly did you find this evidence of yours'?

Saint-Armand: A good question. You see…


End file.
